


Peck on the Cheek

by SmokeyLoki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:00:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmokeyLoki/pseuds/SmokeyLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A peck on the cheek. It was a simple little human thing. Nearly everyone has gotten one. Even high functioning sociopaths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peck on the Cheek

Sherlock was in his chair sideways. His long legs stuck out over one of the chair’s arms, his knees bent limply and feet swinging minutely. His neck was on the other arm, head thrown back, a slight scowl on his face. He glared up at the ceiling, brows knit and mouth pinched. How dare that ceiling be so ridiculously boring. Maybe he could shoot some shapes into it when John went out next…

John. 

John who was sitting, reading the newspaper and eating a bagel with a scandalously large amount of cream cheese on it. He was humming and nodding to himself when he came across an article he agreed with, and tilting his head up a fraction whilst narrowing his eyes when he came across one he didn’t agree with. 

Sherlock had quickly catalogued most of John’s movements, expressions, and habits after the first few months of living together. Of all of John’s silly reading quirks, Sherlock’s favorite was that disapproving head tilt. It was as if John was trying to sneer the article into amending itself. It was full of disdain and distaste that is was occasionally punctuated by a soft snort that John wasn’t aware he made.

Oh, but now John was done reading the paper. Sherlock sighed testily and went back to envisioning the new design the ceiling was going to get when John left for a grocery run later that afternoon. They needed cinnamon and milk. And probably some other things. 

How many bullets did he have… They’d just gotten a new box of them, but after the case 3 weeks ago… well, not many were left. Sherlock mentally calculated that he had about 14. 

John got up and took his dished into the kitchen, scooting a jar of preserved ears over so he could lazily not put his dishes up. Funny. Sherlock couldn’t only recall a handful of times John didn’t do his dished immediately. Usually only if something big was happening, or if he was particularly distracted by ‘War Ghosts.’ Obviously it had to be the later.

“Stop staring at me.” John’s voice sounded from the kitchen. Sherlock unfolded his steepled hands, crossed them over his stomach and pointedly glared at the ceiling. 

“You’re pouting.”

“I do not pout.” Sherlock quipped defensively. A chuckle from the table. “I don’t.” Sherlock said firmly. 

“Of course not.” John agreed good naturedly. 

Silence for a while.

“Bored.” Sherlock announced, practically begging for entertainment. Soft movement was all he heard. But stubbornness won out and Sherlock refused to look at John. “Booooored.” He moaned again. 

Foot steps. 

Suddenly John’s face loomed over the chair, looking straight down at Sherlock, who scowled back up. Sherlock opened his mouth to make some sort of comment but it stuck in his throat as John bowed his head over Sherlock’s and pecked him lightly on the corner of his mouth. Where soft pale cheek become faintly tinted lips. Right on that little indent. 

Then John was walking back to the table, where he settled back down with his laptop and began typing. Sherlock sat up in the chair, bringing his feet to the floor, and just watched John. Sherlock’s mind was simultaneously whirring at a million miles a minute, trying to analyze what just happened, and emptier than it has ever felt. 

There were thousands of thoughts and yet no thoughts. 

“Stop staring at me.” John chided, not looking up from the screen.

Sherlock repositioned himself, throwing a half hearted scowl at John.

“You’re pouting.”

“I do not pout.” Sherlock repeated. John’s following smirk was audible in his coy reply.

“Of course you don’t.”


End file.
